Eyes Like Wild Skies
by DreamingAngelWolf
Summary: Young hunters Bucky and Clint are torn apart when the very thing they hunt takes Bucky for its own. Desperate to get Bucky back, Clint goes on a different kind of hunt, but - as ever in their line of work - nothing is as easy as it sounds. (Bucky/Clint, and others; Supernatural AU.)
1. The Road So Far

**AN:** I was re-watching _The Covenant_ the other day, purely for Sebastian Stan (I skip the scenes he's not in... hah), and it struck me as odd that nobody had taken advantage of the blacked-out-eyes look to make a demon!Bucky, to my knowledge anyway. My brain being wired as it is, I automatically thought 'Winterhawk!' and 'Fanfic opportunity!', and lo and behold, this happened.

* * *

Eyes Like Wild Skies

**1. The Road So Far**

"Get out of him. Now."

The thing in Bucky's body froze, his back facing Clint. A woman lay at his feet, blood spilling sluggishly from the cuts along her bare arms, chest, face, and a gaping wound in her throat – it was on the walls, too, painting a hellish promise. He'd stopped mid-sentence, but what he was writing was something Clint decided to consider later. Right now, some twisted being had decided to joyride the surface using Bucky, and killings aside, that was beyond unacceptable.

Hands raised, the demon turned slowly to face Clint. It was smiling with Bucky's smile, but the blood-caked fingers and blackened eyes were far from Bucky-like. It made it easier to think of him as not-Bucky, but that didn't mean every move, every word, every twitch on his face wasn't a stab in the gut. "Ah, Clint," it sneered. "You finally found us."

Clint raised his bow a little higher. "I won't say it again. Get out of him, and then crawl back to Hell where you belong."

It laughed. "Now why d'you think I'd do that? I haven't finished leaving my special message yet. Besides, I quite like this meat-suit. Definitely one of the sexiest I've had in a while." And to make the point, it dragged Bucky's hands down his chest, grinning lewdly as they slipped lower and lower.

"Stop that."

"Why? I thought you liked it when he did this." He licked Bucky's bottom lip. "Bucky certainly likes it when you put on your little 'shows'." When Clint fired the arrow the demon barely moved out of the way in time, the shaft whistling past his elbow and burying itself into the plaster behind him.

Before it could retaliate, Clint had another one nocked and ready to loose. "That was a warning shot," he told it. "Now for the last time, get out of him."

Bucky's expression changed. If not for the smug quirk of his lips, it would have been pitying. "You know, Bucky isn't actually too pleased that you're here. He's scared I'm gonna hurt you."

"Shut up. I know you're lying –"

"But he's right, Clint," it said with a smile, all teeth and twisted delight. "I am going to hurt you."

When Clint came to, it was almost dark. A deep ache rolled across his ribs when he tried to breathe; one eye refused to open; his head throbbed sharply as he struggled to push himself up; a small crater lay in the centre of the ceiling; his bow lay shattered on the other side of the room; on the wall, the finished bloody message read: _The Red Skull will come_, and by his hand a scribbled note said: _Bucky's sorry. I'm not. xx._

* * *

Clint sat anxiously at Steve's table while his friend finished up on the phone. "Sam hasn't seen anything either," he said. "He's promised to keep an eye out though, just like the others."

Sighing, Clint ran his fingers through his hair. "Thanks Steve."

"Don't mention it. If anything, I wish there was more I could do," Steve admitting, sitting opposite him heavily. "How long's it been now?"

"Nearly a year."

"You know you could've got in touch sooner."

"Yeah, I do, but… I thought I had him." Every time he'd found a body, with that same bloody message scrawled on a surface for all to see (along with a note for him – _Bucky says hi_; _Missed us this time_; _Slowing down a bit, aren't you?_), he thought he was getting closer. It'd been three months since the last corpse.

Steve reached across to clap him on the shoulder. "We'll find him, Clint. And whatever this asshole's doing with him, we'll stop that, too."

"You got any leads on that yet?"

"No," he said, pulling a face. "I've never heard of any Red Skull before. I've been checking the books, but the closest thing I've got is some journal from the mid-twentieth century that just says 'Red Skull defeated'. Doesn't say how, or what it was trying to do –"

"How about world domination," Clint grunted. "That's what all these big bads from Hell want."

Steve shifted in his seat. "The only other clue we have is what you've told us: that all of Buc- this demon's victims are female and of European descent." He lifted his hands uselessly. "Still got no idea why that's significant, though."

"Bucky might be able to help when I get him back."

After a pause, Steve nodded, murmuring a non-committal "Yeah," in response.

Clint raised his eyes. "I will get him back, Steve."

"I know. I'd take issue with you if you didn't think that."

He snorted, dropping his eyes to the table and scratching the edge of a whorl. "Do you think… I mean, is it possible to get him back without hurting him?"

Steve's words were gentle. "I'm not sure, Clint. I think the main thing is that he comes back alive."

* * *

As the petrol and salt caught fire, swallowing up the bones in the grave before them, Bobbi folded her arms and turned to face him. "So," she said. "What was it you were going to ask me before we were so rudely interrupted?"

Unable to tear his gaze away from the flames, Clint swallowed. "Bucky's missing," he began. "He got possessed about a year and half back. The bastard wearing him has been leading me on this sick little chase, but I lost his track six months ago. Was wondering if you knew about any gruesome deaths lately – young women, European background, vic's throat would've been slit, signs of torture, blood on the walls. The phrase, 'The Red Skull will come'."

In his peripherals, Bobbi shook her head. "I'm sorry, Clint," she said sincerely.

He sighed. "That's okay. But now that you know –"

"I will call you immediately."

Turning to look at her, Clint managed a smile. "Nice to see you haven't lost your touch, by the way."

She raised an eyebrow. "What, exactly, do you mean by that?"

"Nothing," he said with a shrug. "Just last time we met, I'm pretty sure we had to save your ass –"

"Only 'cause that dick vampire caught me by surprise –"

"That excuse is getting old now, Bobbi."

"Not as old as you."

"You're right. Can't remember why we ever hung out with you anymore, damn memory failure."

She shoved his shoulder, smirking. "Missed you too, dummy." He winked at her, turning back to the flames as their soft roar took up the threads of the conversation, accentuated by light pops and cracks as the bones turned to ash. "Year and a half, huh?" Bobbi murmured a few minutes later.

"Yeah."

"How're you holding up?"

He took a deep breath as the pain in his chest swelled briefly. "Could be worse," he said.

Her eyes went back to him again, and he could feel her scrutiny as well as he could the heat from the flames. "You don't look great, you know."

"Neither would you after eighteen months of nightmares and insomnia."

She sucked in a breath, but didn't berate him like he expected her to. After another short bout of silence, she told him: "Find Bucky soon. For his sake as much as yours. And when you do, give the filth that dared to set foot inside him an extra kick up its smoky backside from me." Clint closed the distance between them, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and holding her against his side. Before he departed, he made a mental note to bring Bucky back to see their old friend once he was himself again.

* * *

The blood was clearly old and flaking even in the photograph. The message hadn't changed after three years, and Clint was beginning to wonder when this Red Skull was going to actually make an appearance. It was just a brief consideration, though – he was more concerned with when he'd see Bucky again.

"How recent was this?" he asked Sam.

"The photo was taken two days ago. As for the decorating, we're still waiting on forensics for that."

"Can't they determine it from the age of the corpse or something?"

"There wasn't a body at the scene." Clint looked up sharply, and Sam began explaining. "Girl's name was Erica Holstein, twenty-two years old. Science major, clean record, no known enemies, family in Europe. A neighbour reported her missing a couple of weeks ago, and a first search of the apartment showed it was normal. Then this happened."

Frowning, Clint shook his head. "This isn't like him," he muttered. "Was there anything else in the room? A note or something?"

Giving him a knowing look, Sam delved into his pocket and pulled out a scrap of pink paper. "Scooped this up before anyone else saw it," he said. "Nobody noticed, but the Sheriff now thinks there's something significant about the fact that the girl's diary is missing a page."

_Not long now, Clint. Hope you find us in time for the big finale!_

"You know what it means?"

Clint scrunched the paper up tightly. "He's making it harder." With a heavy sigh, he dropped onto a low stone wall, burying his head in his hands. "I'm getting tired of this, Sam."

He heard his friend sit down beside him. "We'll find him, Clint. And when we do, nobody's going to stop you sticking that bastard demon back where it belongs." He rested a hand on his shoulder. "We all want Bucky back. Not as much as you, but… just so you know." Clint nodded. He did know – that was what made the search just a little more bearable.

* * *

Once, when they were younger and just starting out on the hunting scene, Clint and Bucky had to be rescued. It was understandable – they were young, brash, overwhelmed by werewolves and in dire need of assistance – but what made it embarrassing was that they were rescued by a non-human. Toro was someone that Bucky already knew, and, to Clint's surprise, considered a friend, though he wouldn't say why. It was only because of that relationship that Clint refrained from hurting Toro, and partly the reason he sought him out four years after Bucky's disappearance. He knew the goings-on of the underworld, and having been around a while could probably shed some light on a few questions.

"Do you know who's in him?"

Toro shook his head. "I didn't even know he'd been possessed – why didn't you tell me sooner, Clint?"

"He keeps leaving messages about this Red Skull thing. Know what that is?"

Sighing unhappily, the creature nodded (nobody knew what, exactly, Toro was, only that when he was angry things got very hot). "He's a monster who was defeated during the forties, notorious in the underworld for his complaining, amongst other things. MO is enslavement of humanity. Looks human, but his… 'skin' is red, and he's missing physical facial features."

"Like?"

"Nose and ears, most notably."

"What's he up to?"

Toro narrowed his eyes. "What does this have to do with Bucky?"

"It has everything to do with Bucky. Now what have you heard?" Clint was beginning to lose his taste for beating up demons for answers.

He pursed his lips. Regardless of his non-hostile nature towards humans, Toro still didn't like selling out his closer kin. "He's gaining some power. Looks like people have been sacrificed for him, but he needs a living descendant to actually come back to the surface." Clint nodded absently, then stiffened, thinking of the girl who went missing in Sam's town; watching his reaction, Toro's eyebrows shot up. "Wait – he succeeded?"

"A girl named Erica Holstein went missing last year. The same message was in her apartment, she wasn't."

"Clint, whoever's possessing Bucky has to be stopped! If the Skull gets out –"

"He won't. Not if you tell me everything you know."

After slight hesitation, Toro nodded. "But I want my name kept out of it."

Once he'd picked Toro's brains, Clint sent him Steve's way, dropping the man himself a quick message in warning. He wasn't sure yet if the new information would prove useful in finding Bucky, but these days anything was better than nothing.

* * *

"Tasha!"

Amidst the ruins of what used to be a cow shed, Natasha was unsteadily picking herself up from the ground. Clint rushed over to help, ignoring her protests as he held her at arm's length to check for serious injury. "I'm fine, Clint," she grunted.

He nodded, letting her go. "Did you see him?"

Dusting herself down, she gave him a sideways look. "He's trying again," she said.

Clint cursed. "Why?" he growled. "The Skull's as dead now as he was eight months ago. When Steve sends someone back to Hell, they stay in Hell, doesn't the bastard understand that?"

"We don't know, Clint," Natasha said calmly, watching him pace, "but we do know that he's not having as much success. He went through most of the possible descendants before he found Erica; it's likely he'll never find another."

Clint stopped in his tracks, gripping his bow so tightly he might have started bleeding. "I was too late," he muttered. "If I'd gotten here five minutes earlier –"

"He would've run as soon as he saw you. This one likes having the upper hand, and two adversaries as skilled as each other do not allow for that."

If that was meant to soothe him, it didn't. "Just… Just tell me one thing," he asked quietly. "How did he look?"

Natasha blinked. "Like every other demon possessing –"

"No, Tasha, I meant Bucky. How did Bucky look?"

Her eyebrows drew fractionally closer together. "I'm not sure," she said at last, and although he accepted her answer Clint knew she was keeping the truth from him. With Tasha, though, it was only because she didn't want to hurt him. "He went North," she offered, and after a final reassurance that she was alright he took off, following hope and the North Star high above.

* * *

The whiskey was deep amber in colour, darkened by the old, stained wood of the bar beneath it. He'd become immune to the smell a few glasses back, but remembered it faintly, like a scar on the back of his mind. He also remembered laughter, over-enthusiastic gestures of friendship (and love) and out-of-tune songs he could never learn the words to. As Carol appeared in his peripheral vision, Clint sighed and picked the glass up.

"Jess thinks you're giving up."

"Does she now?" He tossed back the contents, the alcohol tickling as it made its way down his throat. Setting the glass back down carefully he made to pour another one, but Carol moved the bottle out of reach.

"I think you're sitting on your ass."

He scowled at her. "Who asked your opinion?"

"What are you doing here, Clint? Everyone says you're constantly looking for Bucky. You won't find him in his favourite bottle."

Won't he? The bottle had given him memories, reminded him of fond moments he'd taken for granted – like the night of Hank's stag party, when Bucky had broken away from the embarrassing dancers to flop heavily next to him where he sat alone, dropped a heavy arm across his shoulders, then kissed him sloppily on the cheek, grinning into the side of Clint's face when he complained about Bucky's sweaty drunk odour. He could've said as much to Carol, but instead came out with: "It's his birthday today. And this is my favourite, too."

She rolled her eyes. "Now, maybe." As he slumped forward onto the bar, she tugged on his t-shirt. "Come on – you can take the spare room."

Clint lifted his head up to decline her offer. "You and Jess need your privacy."

"One," she said, hands on her hips, "that sentence suggests that you think we take advantage of having privacy pretty much every night; two, your wellbeing is more important than our sex life." She hauled him to his feet then, and either she was stronger than he remembered or he'd lost all ability to resist in the past few hours. "And three – you're assuming your presence would deter us."

It took a short while to get Clint settled into the spare room, and he was only slightly humiliated when Jess appeared in the doorway to tease him for his drunken state. Carol chided her softly, sending her away with a kiss, and Clint's chest ached at the gesture. He didn't want to know how long it had been since he'd kissed Bucky, never mind the fact that he couldn't have worked it out anyway. "Hey," he mumbled as Carol was about to leave. "If… If Jess was missing, and she'd been gone for a while, would you keep going? Would you still… look for her?"

"Yes," she answered immediately.

He frowned, picking at the blanket. "Even after six years?"

"As long as it took." And before he could ask why, she continued: "Because I know she'd do the same for me." Her words resonated around Clint's head until long after he'd fallen asleep; images of Bucky, obsidian pools, and blood vanished the moment he cracked open his eyes, but those words remained crystal clear and sharp enough to force him back into his search.

* * *

This was the last thing Clint wanted to do, but he'd finally run out of options. Bucky could've been anywhere – the closest he'd been was two years ago after fighting Natasha, and clues were thin on the ground. All of the hunter community who knew Bucky were keeping their eyes and ears open, but no-one had anything to tell him. It had been seven years without Bucky by his side for Clint to resort to this.

Abandoned warehouses always existed in someplace or other, and Clint was familiar with this one. He tamped down on his instincts as he was pressed forcefully into a steel support pillar, thin fingers digging into his throat with relish, and raised his hands above his head. "Please," he gasped out. "I just need her help."

"And why should I let you anywhere near her, asshole?"

"Don't mean her harm – no-one else I can ask."

A smirk. "You're assuming she's going to agree to your request."

"Why you so sure she won't?"

His aggressor snarled at that, squeezing harder until a shout from behind had him dropping Clint to the ground in an instant. Clint wheezed and coughed for a minute, fleetingly registering the pair of red boots that had come to stop in front of him. "Well, Clint," a velvet voice drawled from above, "you must really be desperate if you've come to ask someone like me for help."

It shouldn't have surprised him how obvious it was; he was undertaking measures only the desperate turned to after all. Rubbing his neck, he explained, "There are some things witchcraft can do that modern technology can't." He told them his story, then waited, silently praying as they held a muted conversation in front of him. This was his last shot at finding Bucky – his last sane shot, anyway. Plan B didn't bear thinking about. But after what seemed like a minor eternity, the two of them turned back to him.


	2. Now

Eyes Like Wild Skies

**2. Now**

The first time Clint saw Bucky, seven years and three months after he was snatched away from him, was as he was being thrown across the middle of a barn. Hitting the floor, he rolled with the impact, fitting an arrow into his bow and sending it in the demon's direction as soon as he caught sight of him. It was fairly ineffective, being batted aside before getting anywhere near its target, but it allowed him to run up close and start a much more close-quarters fight. Earlier, he'd resigned himself to the fact that he might just have to cause some damage to Bucky if he wanted the son of a bitch out of him, but he didn't realise he was pulling his punches until the demon kicked him hard enough to send him into a wooden support, cracking it with the impact. Pain shot down his back and ribs, but by some minor miracle he didn't think anything serious was broken. He tried another arrow, his effort wasted again but allowing him time to get back on his feet and land a proper blow to his opponent. Wiping blood from Bucky's nose, the demon grinned.

Their fight lasted… Well, Clint wasn't sure how long it lasted. All he knew was that he was playing defence far more than he was offence. That wasn't something new; Bucky had always had the upper hand when they sparred, but the idea that whoever was inside him was using his skills (possibly to greater effect – both of them were guilty of holding back during training) angered Clint to the point of carelessness. Just once he let his guard down, and that was all the demon needed to send him flying. When he went crashing back to earth again, he had barely enough time to recover his senses before he was being jerked upwards by his lapels, and Bucky's face with jet black eyes was sneering down at him. "Finally caught up, did you?" the demon hissed, following up with a swift, powerful punch to Clint's jaw. "You've been dawdling, Clint." Another punch. "Have to say, I was hugely disappointed."

He was expecting the fist to connect with his face again, but instead felt himself lifted up once more, the wood panelling of the barn rushing past as he flew into a stack of hay bales. Coughing as dust and bits of straw found their way into his lungs, Clint scrambled for a way to bring the fight back into his favour. All he needed was for the demon to come closer.

"Bucky had a lot of faith in you, y'know." Clint froze. "He seemed to think you'd have me out of him in a few months – maybe a couple of years tops. He'll be so upset to know he's missing the show."

Trying to find his feet, Clint coughed heavily into the ground. "Bucky," he tried calling.

The demon laughed. "Oh, of course – I forgot to tell you!" it crowed, and tapped the side of Bucky's head harshly. "Bucky's not here anymore. He disappeared about… ooh, three or four years ago? Kind of sad, really. I miss his pathetic little whining."

Clint leant on a bale for support, the edge of his bow digging into his hand. "Bucky, I know you're in there."

"Um, hello?" he shouted back. "Weren't you listening just then? Bucky can't hear you!"

"I'm here, Buck. I found you."

"I never gave up! I'll always love you!" the demon imitated him, falsetto voice grating on Clint's ears. Bucky's lips curled up in disgust. "God, you make me sick," it spat, taking a step forward.

Pushing aside the ache in his ribs, Clint made one more effort. "Bucky!" he shouted. "Don't let him do this to you!"

"Will you give it a rest already!" In its rage, the demon took another couple of steps forward, and finally, everything was in place.

"Steve, now!"

From the top level of the barn Steve emerged, book in hand, Latin on his tongue; "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus –"

"What are you doing?" Bucky's head snapped back and forth between Steve and Clint, and Clint allowed himself to grin.

"I caught up," he said, and it looked down at the straw-covered floor.

"Omnis incursio infernalis adversarii –"

"No!" The Devil's Trap was just showing through the covering Clint and Steve had laid over it in preparation, and the demon had stepped just far enough inside to be caught. It looked at Clint, pure hatred on Bucky's features, and Clint could've laughed.

"Hold on Bucky!"

"Ergo draco maledicte –"

Bucky started to thrash. He clapped his hands over his ears, screaming as the words started to pull at the entity inside him.

"Ut Ecclesiam tuam –"

It was one thing knowing it was the demon that was screaming and not Bucky, but all Clint could see was Bucky, and in his mind it was Bucky roaring his pain to the ground.

"– secura tibi facias –"

He fell to his knees.

"– libertate servire."

It took all Clint's effort to prevent himself from rushing to Bucky's side.

"Te rogamus –"

Unending black eyes met his.

"– audi nos!"

The entire barn shook as a torrent of dark grey smoke shot out of Bucky's body with an inhuman wail. Clint instinctively ducked as it pooled in the air above him, circling like a storm, but as he watched it spun faster and faster until with a slight clap of thunder it dissipated into thin air. A dull thump came from the centre of the barn.

"Bucky!"

As the air became still again, Clint ran across the space separating him and the body on the floor. He'd heard stories of exorcisms going wrong, of the victim being left 'damaged' or 'incomplete' in some way. Everyone had heard of people dying. He dropped to his knees beside Bucky as Steve called "Is he okay?" from the rafters, fingers quickly finding the pulse spot on his neck; it was there – weak and easily missed, but there nonetheless.

Unable to help himself, Clint started to laugh. "He's alive!" he shouted (to Steve, to the barn, to the demon down in Hell). Tears clouded his vision as he bent forward to press his forehead against Bucky's, the aches and pains in his body reduced to background sensations by the relief flooding through him. Bucky was free; he was free and human and here and… cold, thin, far too pale, with ugly bruises forming on his skin, shadows underneath his eyes, and shallow breaths hardly moving his chest – alive, yes, but barely.

Clint and Steve worked together to get Bucky somewhere safe. He stayed unconscious for the entirety of the hour-long journey to Hank and Janet's place, the closest friendly environment they could find, and Clint in turn maintained physical contact with him, sitting in the back of Steve's truck with Bucky's head pillowed in his lap, his fingers running through dark hair. His body wanted him to sleep – as did Steve – but Clint wanted to see Bucky come back to himself, and sleeping might mean he missed that moment.

Hank and Jan had everything ready when they arrived. The guest room was set up with an IV stand and a heart monitor, as well as a simple nasal cannula; Clint didn't ask how and where they'd managed to acquire such equipment, but only because he figured Steve had told them to get it all, and he was grateful for anything that could tell them how Bucky was faring.

When everything was in place and Bucky was settled on the bed, Jan ushered the men out of the room and told Clint he had first use of the shower while she tended to his bruises. Despite the sweetness of hot water on his battered body, he kept it short, already missing the feel of Bucky's skin against his own. Jan was gone by the time he was finished, so he stretched out alongside Bucky beneath the covers, moving as close as he dared before succumbing to the pull of sleep, entwining their fingers as a final reassurance that this was real.

* * *

"Why isn't he waking up, Jan?"

Clipping a new bag into the IV stand, Jan smiled at him sympathetically. "He's been through a lot, Clint," she reminded him. "You have to give him time to get his strength back up."

"It's been two days –"

"Just two days. And he's alive. A lot of people don't survive experiences like that."

He sighed, reaching out to run his fingers over Bucky's cheek. "I guess."

"Hey." Jan squeezed his shoulder. "You know as well as I do that Bucky can and will bounce back from this. What is it that Steve calls him again?"

"A stubborn jerk," he said, smiling automatically.

"Exactly," she chuckled. "So give him a bit of time. He'll be up soon."

When she was gone, Clint decided to ignore time for a while and just drink in the sight of Bucky – completely human Bucky – lying on the bed in front of him. He'd already spent a lot of the past two days doing just that, but he couldn't help himself. Bucky was still on the pale side (against the purple splotches, at least) and still uncomfortably thin, but the shadows under his eyes were gone and there was a hint of returning colour to his skin. His hair, messy and unwashed, was only marginally longer than Clint remembered it, and normally Bucky would be thinking about getting it cut by now, so he was grudgingly grateful that his possessor had at least kept it trimmed. That sentiment had instantly been wiped away when he saw the scars: long, thick indications that the demon had put a knife to Bucky's skin ran all along his left arm, from his shoulder to the back and palm of his hand, and Hank speculated that one or two of them hadn't healed particularly cleanly. Clint wondered if Bucky knew, then wondered if it would be better if he didn't. He traced them all just once; Bucky didn't stir.

Watching him now, the more prominent rise and fall of his chest, the flashing lines of the heart monitor, Clint started to sympathise with him a little. "Hell, if I could sleep for three days straight, I would," he mumbled.

Seven years ago, Bucky would've responded with something along the lines of "Don't I know it!". Now, he just breathed, but Clint was willing to accept that as a sufficient response.

* * *

By day four of waiting, Clint had become accustomed to spending his days doing very little. Steve had gone back to Brooklyn, saying that he was taking up space and overstaying his welcome, despite Jan's protests to the opposite. She'd then turned to Clint and threatened to lock him in the spare room with Bucky if he so much as thought about leaving as well, and even though he hadn't, one look at Hank's expression (urgently trying to convey 'she's serious') convinced him not to at all. As he was lying on the other half of the guest bed, humming absently and wondering where his good-for-nothing brother was for once, Clint felt the bed shift. He turned his head, and found himself staring into eyes he'd only seen in dreams for far too long.

"Bucky?"

Bucky blinked slowly. "… Clint?"

"Hey," he breathed, grinning hard enough to hurt. Shifting onto his side, he cupped Bucky's jaw with his hand, mindful of the bruise he'd put there during the barn fight. "How're you feeling?"

He took his time answering, a deep frown on his face. "I don't… 'm I dreamin'?" His voice was a little raspy, like he hadn't used it in a while, and the sound pulled at Clint's heart.

"No, you're not dreaming," he assured him softly, thumb stroking across Bucky's cheek. "You're back, Buck. You're safe."

"… Zola…"

"Zola?"

Bucky nodded heavily. "Says he'll hurt you…"

"He won't, Bucky," Clint told him, figuring out what Zola was on the spot. "He's gone. It's just you in there now. We got rid of him for good."

"Oh." As his eyelids began to droop, Clint leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"Go back to sleep if you want," he whispered. "I promise I'll be here when you wake up again." It was a conscious effort to say those words; though he wanted nothing more than to stare into Bucky's blue eyes for as long as possible, he knew now wasn't the time to be selfish. As it was, he felt a little surge of emotion anyway when Bucky immediately gave up the battle to stay awake. After a few minutes of watching him, Clint forced himself up and downstairs to get some water, and to tell Hank and Jan the good news.

* * *

Bucky was quiet when he next woke up. Nearly a full day had passed, and Clint was pleased when he showed signs of being more alert. "Did I tell you how much I missed you?" he whispered.

Not meeting his gaze, Bucky shook his head. "How long's it been?"

"Seven years."

His eyes widened. "Seven…"

"You remember any of it?"

The answer took a long time in coming. "No," Bucky said flatly. "Just – him." He let out a shaky breath. "His voice."

"It's okay." Clint squeezed his hand. "He can't get to you anymore."

"Right…" Turning his head when Clint tried to kiss him, he mumbled, "I'm tired."

"Oh. You, uh, want me to leave?"

"No." Bucky didn't sound too sure. "It's – you don't have to."

"Looks like I'm staying then." He waited until Bucky's breathing levelled out, then decided that he'd actually spent far too long in bed for a healthy person, and took a trip downstairs.

"Ah!" Jan said as soon as he appeared in the kitchen. "Just the person I wanted to see. Wait right here. Do not move!" She darted out to the front room.

Blinking after her, Clint raised an eyebrow at Hank. "Am I in trouble?"

Hank gave him a half-shrug. "I wouldn't say 'trouble'."

Before he could ask what the other man meant, Jan was back, thrusting a long list under his chin. "Seeing as you know now that Bucky's going to be okay, I thought it was time that you could start helping out around the house a little so you're not stuck with him every hour of his recovery."

Clint stared at the paper. "But what if I want to be with him every –"

"Then you're a lovesick fool who has forgotten his own independence."

"Jan, I haven't talked to him in seven years."

"Which is why you should go back into things slowly." She stuck her hands on her hips. "Do you think Bucky would really appreciate you hovering around him whenever he opened his eyes?"

"He hasn't seen me in seven years," he mumbled.

Jan sighed. "Space is good, Clint," she said softly. "Space allows people to heal. And I know you just got him back, but you shouldn't smother him with your presence while he tries to come to terms with everything that's happened. Besides, you need to get out of the house for a little while, remember what normal people do in day-to-day life."

He waved the list. "This is not what day-to-day people shop for, Jan."

She raised her eyebrows. "Are you saying Hank and I aren't ordinary?"

"Uh –"

"We're not ordinary, Jan," Hank said, smiling over the top of his newspaper. "We're just very good at pretending to be."

Contemplating his words for a few seconds, Jan eventually tutted and poked Clint in the chest. "Go out and buy the things. We'll keep an eye on Bucky while you're gone." And because no-one said no to Janet van Dyne without good reason (and backing from Hank), Clint found himself leaving to go shopping.

* * *

"Hey Hank."

"Clint, you need to come back. Now."

"Why – is Bucky okay?"

"We don't know."

"What?"

"Bucky's gone."

"… Bucky's gone."

"Yes."

"How?"

"Through the window. Jan went up to check on him a few minutes ago, came back down saying the bed was empty and his window was open. We're not sure how long he's been gone… Clint? Hello? Clint, are you still there?"

* * *

It took them two months of tracking car thefts, credit card thefts, security camera footage, hotel bookings and calling hunters (two months longer than Clint liked), but eventually Clint cornered Bucky in a mostly-empty motel in middle-of-nowhere Maine.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Bucky automatically drew a gun on him. Clint didn't move, narrowing his eyes from where he leant against the bathroom doorframe, and waited until Bucky lowered the weapon. "You found me."

"Yeah. I did. Again." He straightened. "And once more, I ask: what the hell do you think you are doing?"

"Atoning," Bucky bit out.

"On your own? With no help? You weren't in any condition –"

"I didn't want any help. This is something I have to do alone."

"We were worried sick about you. Jan was a mess, Bucky – she blamed herself for you leaving!"

"I didn't want that."

"Well you caused it."

"Then… tell her I'm sorry."

"No, you're doing that yourself." Bucky turned away from him, dropping a bag on the bed. "Did you even think about how I might feel?"

He froze. "Clint…"

"I had just got you back!" he snapped. "You'd been stolen from me for seven years Bucky, and the moment I finally saved you – the moment I could actually hold you, touch you without hurting you, look into your eyes and see you – you decided to take off without so much as a note! And what could you possibly want to atone for anyway? That demon did all those things, not you; you said you didn't even remember, why –"

"I lied!" Bucky spun around, and Clint stared at him. "I do remember," he said, anguished. "That message I used to paint on the walls. The times you came close to finding me. Every girl I tracked down, every knife I dragged through their skin, through my skin; every plea that fell from their lips as they begged me to stop, even when they could hardly speak." He swallowed hard. "What I did to Erica Holstein. The monster I helped to unleash. Fighting Natasha. Hurting you –" Choking on his words, Bucky shook his head, blinking back tears. Taking a steadying breath, he continued: "I might not have been in control, but that doesn't mean it wasn't my hands that did all of that. They're covered in blood, Clint, and I'm not gonna stop until they're clean again. So don't try and convince me otherwise."

Clint was stunned. "Why didn't you tell me all that?" he asked quietly. "You should've – I could've helped you."

"I told you, I didn't want any help. And… I didn't want to – to drag you into it." He looked at his hands. "It's my mess."

"That doesn't mean I don't want to help." Clint stepped forward, reaching out to take Bucky's shoulders. He was stiff under his hands. "Knowing you were gone again, that hurt, Bucky. I was… I was afraid we hadn't saved you properly, that there was still some demon in you that had been playing us, just waiting for the opportunity to snatch you back."

"Zola's gone," Bucky murmured, shaking his head.

"Then please. Stop running away from me." He moved his hands up to Bucky's neck, slipping them underneath the collar of his jacket. "I didn't save you just to lose you all over again."

Brow pulled low, Bucky didn't meet his gaze as he whispered, "I'm sorry."

Clint moved slowly, tilting his head to make his intentions clear. Bucky's breath hitched and he hesitated, but Clint carried on forwards and gently brought their lips together. For a couple of seconds, that was all it was – then Bucky gasped, a half-pained, broken sound, and kissed him back with a fervency Clint hadn't been expecting; and it was incredible. His hold on Bucky tightened as hands gripped the back of his shirt, like they could possibly get even closer than they already were. Tongues brushed over bottom lips where teeth had lightly grazed. Bucky's pulse rocketed under his fingers; Clint recognised a similar response in himself, and moved his hands lower, feeling the muscles in Bucky's back shift between too-sharp shoulder blades. He fleetingly remembered their first kiss, how long ago it had been, and thanked every force he could think of that he was able to have this again. Slipping his hands under Bucky's t-shirt, he ignored the feel of protruding ribs and encouraged him backwards toward the bed, his need already evident –

"No." Bucky pushed them apart suddenly. Breathing heavily, he kept his eyes down and shook his head, muttering "No," again, his hands firm on Clint's chest.

Also breathing a little raggedly, Clint blinked a few times to clear the haze before nodding. "Okay," he said, placing his hands over Bucky's. "Okay, we won't." The 'why' was desperate to leave the tip of his tongue, but he held back, knowing he'd asked too many whys already.

"I want to," Bucky said thickly, lifting his head to stare at their hands. He trembled faintly.

"I get it," Clint told him before he forced himself to say more. "And it's alright, I swear."

He sighed in relief, the tension leaving him simultaneously. Clint took the opportunity to gather him close, holding him gently but firmly and ignoring the deep ache in his sternum when he registered how bony Bucky was against him. Arms snaked around his waist, and Bucky's breath was hot against his neck as he breathed "Thank you."

After being assured that Bucky would still be there when he returned, Clint left to go and buy dinner. Though he still trusted his partner implicitly, he still felt a brief wash of relief at the sight of him watching TV from the bed, his jacket tossed onto the single armchair in the corner of the room. "So I got burgers," he said, walking in. "Hope you don't mind, didn't have enough for…" Now that he wasn't wearing long sleeves, Clint could see Bucky's arms. Or rather, his left arm.

Realising he was looking, Bucky tried to hide it from view. "Burgers are fine," he said, taking a swig from his beer.

Clint dropped the food at the end of the bed, standing in front of the television. "What happened to your arm?" he asked casually.

Bucky bit his lip, using his beer as a stalling tactic again. Clint waited until he spoke, soft and hesitant; "You saw what he did to it," he began. "I had to… change that."

He nodded. "Can I see?" Bucky was still for a moment, but then he shifted across to make room for Clint, who shucked his own jacket and shoes before settling down. At first, it looked a bit of a mess, but then it dawned on him what he was seeing: at some point while he was on the run, Bucky had gotten a tattoo – no, he'd gotten a lot of tattoos, and all of them, as far as Clint could tell, were protection sigils and spells. Some were written in Latin, others in Enochian, and he identified wards against both angelic and demonic possession, djinn poison, and some witchcraft tricks, too. They tangled around each other, twisting round his forearm and tracking up to his shoulder, where a bright red pentagram took up most of the skin there. "Why in red?" was all Clint could think to ask.

Bucky turned to him sharply. He stared at him for a beat, then burst out laughing (and if the sound made Clint want to cry, he didn't say anything). "My entire arm becomes a protection scripture library and you ask about the colour?" he gasped out, and carried on laughing, as if he hadn't laughed for – well, seven years. Clint, at loss for what to do, laughed with him. The two of them laughed hard enough and long enough to nearly end up on the floor, but after a good five minutes they ran out of steam, slumped against each other, smiling despite the ache in their jaws and the tears in their eyes. "It's red 'cause the guy ran out of black ink," Bucky explained.

"What?" Clint snorted, ready to go another round of breathless laughter when Bucky grinned and nodded. "Swear I'm gonna die laughing any moment now."

"Don't," Bucky chuckled, then, more quietly, "Please don't."

Clint rested his chin on the tattooed shoulder; he lightly traced the designs – the new ones he'd never seen before – registering the points where they covered the ugly scars Zola had caused. Before he could stop himself, he asked, "What did he do to you?"

Leaning back into him, Bucky shivered. "It was part of a ritual," he mumbled. "Something to do with the Skull, but I didn't understand." He swallowed the rest of his beer, the corners of his mouth pulled down unhappily. "Couldn't look at them without feeling sick."

Lacing their fingers together, Clint pressed a kiss to the back of his jaw. "At least you're safe now," he murmured.

Bucky tipped his head slightly, resting it against Clint's. "Maybe you should get one," he suggested. "I mean, you don't have to if you don't want, but after having been through that, I…" He took a shuddering breath. "I'd hate myself for letting that happen to you."

"Ditto," Clint returned, and nodded thoughtfully. "I might do. Not as all-out as you went, but a pentagram's not a bad idea."

"Guess I come across a bit obsessed, huh," Bucky huffed.

"Who could blame you?"

"Steve'll throw a fit."

"He'll understand. And if he doesn't, I can think of a few people who'll make him." Bucky laughed again, shorter than earlier, but still music to Clint's ears. A grumbling stomach, however, wasn't. "Aw, we forgot about the burgers."

"They're still there," Bucky said as Clint moved to get them.

"Yeah, but they're cold now," he grumbled.

"I don't really care – gimme."

It was the most natural thing in the world: sat pressed against Bucky eating cold, greasy burgers in a dingy motel room, watching bad TV as if nothing had changed. Clint fell asleep not long after finishing his food, head leaning on Bucky's too-skinny shoulder.

* * *

Waking up sometime after dawn (the easiest sleep he'd had since being reunited with Bucky for the second time), Clint found he'd been moved underneath the covers. No sooner had he sat up than he was greeted with Bucky's lips, a desperate make-out session that left him needing more again, but on his own. Bucky refused to do more than kiss and kept everything above the belt, and as Clint was trying to understand (and pull his thoughts away from the direction they'd been going) he began to notice things that were… off with Bucky. "Did you sleep last night?"

His skin was pale, like it had been when he was saved, and the shadows had returned to his eyes. "Sleeping's not exactly pleasant," he mumbled, gaze on the floor.

Clint frowned, remembering the countless nights he'd spent without getting any shut-eye, just so that he could pick up a lead on where the demon had taken Bucky next. "Whether it is or not," he said, "you should try and get some." He didn't get a response, but when he convinced Bucky to get some sleep in Old Faithful, he experienced first-hand why the other man was so enamoured with the practise anymore.

"It was him," Bucky gasped, crouched at the side of the road and shaking in Clint's arms. "His voice, in my head, and I was ki- There was laughing, and, and black, and blood, a-and it was yours –"

"I'm fine. We're fine. Zola's gone. You're safe now, Buck, you're safe." Clint whispered platitudes in his ear until he stopped shaking, guiding him back to the car and not mentioning the episode again. He didn't need to be warned that it might happen another time. Recovery, they both realised, was going to take a while.

Watching him accept Jan's tearful reprimand for making her worry, Clint hoped Bucky would be willing to accept their forgiveness. The man was stubborn when he wanted to be, particularly about what was right and wrong, and if he didn't think he deserved something he tended not to accept it. As they drove away from the Pym household, Bucky cleared his throat and asked, "Think maybe we should go to Steve's sooner rather than later."

Clint raised an eyebrow. "You sure?"

"Yeah," he nodded. "He'll kill me if I don't go see him to let him know I'm okay."

"I wouldn't let him."

"Another reason to go now."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I don't want to see you getting hurt because you tried to get in the way of Steve Rogers."

He rolled his eyes. "We're planning on hunting down some big-ass demons and you're worried about me versus Steve?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bucky smile. "You can't go after big-ass demons if Steve takes you out first."

"But we'd be hunting demons before going to Steve."

"He'd track us down. Get Natasha on our case."

"She wouldn't hurt us."

"No, but she'd hand us over for shits and giggles."

"… Yeah, you're probably right," he conceded, secretly pleased that they were half-bantering this way. "Steve's it is then."

As they drove along, the windows down and old music blaring from Old Faithful's less-than-reliable radio, Bucky slipped their hands together beside the gearbox. When Clint looked over, he found himself staring right into Bucky's eyes, and once more his heart lurched with the reminder that they were no longer as black as ink – no, against the greenery racing past the window, they were a strong, stormy blue, reminiscent of an ocean storm Clint had once watched with Barney, in a time before demons ever existed in his world; more than that, they were bright and, for the time-being, happy. It was that moment that Clint vowed to keep them that way as often as possible.

"As adorable as you two are, it might be healthier for the both of you if you pay attention to the road, Clint."

"Holy shit!" Clint slammed on the brakes, bringing Old Faithful to a screeching halt, and the both of them turned in their seats to stare at the man who had suddenly appeared lounging in the backseat.

"Who the fuck are you?" Bucky growled.

The man regarded them both casually. He was wearing old jeans and a Black Sabbath t-shirt that were at odds with the expensive watch on his wrist, and sported a neatly kept beard that was also at odds with his slightly wilder hair. A smirk rested easily on his lips, and his eyes settled on Bucky. "That's not a very nice way to greet someone, especially when they're entering your abode. But if you are going to go down that route, shouldn't you be asking 'what the fuck are you' before demanding to know who?"

"Who, and what, the fuck are you?" Clint said.

Their surprise passenger turned the smirk to him. "My name is Anthony," he said, "and I'm an angel of the Lord. But you can call me Tony. Only angels call me Anthony, and to be honest it's a bit of a mouthful. Not as snappy as –"

"What do you want?" Bucky cut him off.

Tony's smirk grew a little wider. "Word on the cloud is that you, Mr Barnes, are looking for – how shall I put it – redemption. Now, I'm an angel who could help you with just that."

"Could you now?" Clint said flatly.

Leaning forward, Tony draped his arms over the backs of their seats. "Gentlemen," he said, "I have a plan that I guarantee will appeal to the both of you, if you'd just hear me out." When neither of them moved, he grinned. "I call it: the Avengers Initiative."

* * *

**AN: **I made a gifset for this on my Tumblr account! ^_^

P.S. If you're now thinking of watching _The Covenant_, I'd say: don't expect too much from it. Cast is hot, dialogue's not, special effects are pretty cool, but that's probably it. Sebastian Stan makes it all worth it, though. ;-)


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